


The Hedgehog Defence, or Rosamund Watson’s First Christmas

by RubraSaetaFictor



Series: The Morals of Chess [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Fanart, Fluff, Humor, Illustrated, POV John Watson, Parentlock, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Realistic Parentlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-02
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-04 13:34:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 9,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5335955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RubraSaetaFictor/pseuds/RubraSaetaFictor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's decided to raise his daughter with Sherlock and it's her first Christmas, but the men have some differing ideas on how to best celebrate the holidays.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year

**Author's Note:**

> _The Hedgehog is a pawn formation in chess adopted usually by Black that can arise from several openings. Black exchanges his pawn on c5 for White's pawn on d4, and then places pawns on squares a6, b6, d6, and e6. These pawns form a row of "spines" behind which Black develops his forces. Typically, the bishops are placed on b7 and e7, knights on d7 and f6, queen on c7, and rooks on c8 and e8 (or c8 and d8). Although Black's position is cramped, it has great latent energy, which may be released if Black is able to play ...b5 or ...d5 at some point._
> 
> _Traditional chess strategy would have frowned upon Black's setup, since his pieces have little room in which to manoeuvre. While Black's position is cramped, it is also relatively free of weaknesses. There is no obvious way for White to attack Black's pawn structure, but Black has several methods at his disposal for creating counterplay._
> 
>    
> There's a legitimate chess strategy called the Hedgehog Defence, how could I not use it as a title? 
> 
> ***  
> This story takes place about 8 1/2 months after the events of [ The Eighth Square ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4911088), making Rosie about 11 months old.
> 
> I’d love it if you read that story too, but all that you really need to know from the earlier parts of the series is that Mary died killing Moriarty and that John decided to move he and Rosie into 221B permanently when Sherlock told him that they were his family of choice. Oh, and John and Rosie took over the main floor bedroom so John wouldn’t have to go up and down the stairs for late-night feedings.
> 
> ***

John, having successfully put Rosie to bed after three books and four songs, plopped down into his armchair, where he found a cup of tea waiting for him. “So, Christmas.”

Sherlock looked up the book he was reading. “Christian appropriation of the winter solstice celebration, happens in 24 days, I’m familiar with it.”

John rolled his eyes. “Don’t you think it’s time we talked about how we want to do Christmas?”

“What is there to do? Mrs. Hudson will throw up greenery in the flat, you’ll wear a hideous jumper, everyone will eat too much, and we’ll get drunk watching telly. Seems fairly basic to me.”

 “You can’t be serious.”

“No. I can’t say I take Christmas terribly seriously. Didn’t even bother to celebrate before you moved in. Did you want to stop? I’ve no objection.”

“What? No! Of course I don’t want to give up Christmas!”

“Then plan whatever you’d like and I’ll go along with whatever you choose, as I usually do.”

“Like you ever do what I say. And anyway, it’s different now. There’s Rosie.”

“Then we’ll only get _slightly_ drunk while _quietly_ watching telly. There, festivities planned.”

John sighed; clearly a different tactic was in order. “Sherlock, we agreed that when Rosie and I decided to stay we’d make major decisions as a _family_.”

“Who is in charge of the Christmas pudding is hardly a major decision.”

“It’s her first Christmas. The only first Christmas she’ll ever have. I know she won’t really remember it, but it’s our chance to choose the traditions we want her to grow up with, our chance to decide how _we_ celebrate as a family.”

“This is important to you.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes.”

Sherlock set down his book. “All right then, Christmas. What do we need to decide?”

“How did you celebrate as a kid?”

“We would open presents in the morning and I would spend the day reading my new books. Mummy would cook, the turkey would always get done early and we’d finish eating dinner in time for Mycroft to watch the Queen’s speech. It was a fairly quiet day.”

“Anything you were particularly fond of?”

“I liked the reading.”

“So we’ll make sure to get Rosie some books. Anything else?”

“I liked the crackers.”

John raised an eyebrow at this. “Really? Paper hats and dumb jokes and all?”

“Mycroft hated to wear the hat, but Mummy insisted.”

“So books to read and crackers to annoy your brother. Got it.”

“And the getting drunk while watching telly isn’t all that bad, for one day a year.”

“Done.” John smiled. “So, dinner. Turkey?”

“Yes.”

“Chipolatas?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Brussels sprouts?”

“No one but Mycroft will eat them, but yes.”

“We _are_ inviting him then?”

“Do I get to make him wear the hat?”

“Yes.”

“Then maybe. He won’t come anyway, so we might as well.”

“Yes, to inviting Mycroft then. Mrs. Hudson obviously.”

“Obviously.” Sherlock nodded in assent.

“Lestrade?”

“Yes.”

“Molly?”

“Of course.”

John paused a moment. “Wiggins?”

Sherlock shrugged non-committally. “He’ll probably show up whether we invite him or not.”

“Your parents?”

“They’d actually come.”

“So, no?”

“No.”

“Christmas pudding?”

“You have my blanket approval for any food item involving alcohol or fire.”

 “So Christmas Eve dinner we have turkey, sausages, Brussels sprouts, flaming cake, Mrs. Hudson, Greg, Molly, _maybe_ Wiggins and Mycroft, if he wears the hat.”

“Having solved the issue of the Christmas pudding, are you all set?” Sherlock lifted his book up from his lap.

“We haven’t even gotten to the most important bit yet.”

Sherlock’s book lowered back down.

“Father Christmas. In my family, gifts from Father Christmas were unwrapped, just appeared under the tree Christmas morning. Now we could wrap them, it’s more festive and she’d get to tear the paper, but then we’d have to make sure we kept the paper separate and hidden, because if she finds it or we use for someone else’s gift—“

“No.”

“You’re right, the wrapping makes everything too complicated.”

“No. No Father Christmas.”

“What do you mean no Father Christmas? I mean there’s no need to bother with grown-ups, but for Rosie…”

“I’m not lying.”

“You’re not lying?”

“No.”

“You lie all the time! You lie to get witnesses to give you information. You lie to your brother constantly. You lie to get me to make you tea! It’s just Father Christmas.”

From the bedroom, Rosie began to cry. John sighed and shifted in his chair.

Sherlock stood stiffly, pulling his shirt down straight. “Drink your tea. I’ll go.”

John turned his head and yelled over his shoulder. “We’re not done with this, you know!”

Sherlock’s voice droned out from the bedroom as he went through the door. “I held out no hope that we were.”


	2. Deck the Halls

John was in an excellent mood. The shops and street were decorated in their holiday finest, the day was clear and bright, and he had three days off at home with Sherlock and Rosie. They’d gone to Tesco and walked home the long way, just because they could.

He practically bounded up the stairs and when he pushed opened the door, it only got better.

He stood aside to let Sherlock and Rosie through the door, while he took in the transformation of the flat. Mrs. Hudson had clearly been decorating in their absence, as the mantle and windows were garlanded in evergreen and winterberries.

“Lovely.” John sighed contently to himself.

Sherlock deposited his bags on the kitchen table and looked around as he began to unbuckle Rosie from the carrier on his chest.

Sherlock’s gaze stopped on the archway over his head and he huffed out an exasperated breath. “Mrs. Hudson!”

John generally considered himself a law-abiding man. Yes, there were times and circumstances where, say, breaking and entering, were necessary for the greater good, but there were other rules that simply always must be obeyed. Traditions were as good as rules, and in his book, it was practically criminal to leave someone standing directly under mistletoe un-kissed.

“Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock bellowed toward the stairs. “How many times have I told you not to hang parasitic greenery in the flat?!”

John rocked up on his toes as he carried his bags into the kitchen and placed a quick peck on Sherlock’s cheek.

Sherlock turned and blinked at John, who pointed at the mistletoe and shrugged as he turned to put the perishables in the fridge.

Mrs. Hudson poked her head into the flat. “What was that you were yelling about, dear?”

Sherlock looked over at Mrs. Hudson and blinked again.

“Sherlock, you owe Rosie a kiss.” Mrs. Hudson pointed to the leaves and berries hanging over his head.

Sherlock slowly leaned down and placed a kiss on Rosie’s head and removed her from the carrier.

John shut the refrigerator door and turned and grinned at Mrs. Hudson. “I believe he wanted to say thank you for the decorations. They’re lovely.”

“Well, that’s a change. He usually fusses that I’m making a mess and touching his things.”

“Sherlock is embracing the Christmas spirit this year.” John pulled Sherlock’s coat off his shoulders and placed it on the hook near the door.

“Lovely! Do you think you’ll be getting a tree then?” Mrs. Hudson looked around the room, which was cluttered with a combination of books, files, furniture, and baby toys. “Though I don’t know where you’d put it.”

“I don’t know.” John removed his own jacket and hung it up. “Are we getting a tree, Sherlock?”

Sherlock unbuckled the last of the carrier straps and set it on the table, and conspicuously stepped forward, away from the mistletoe, giving it a glance as if it might spiral down from the ceiling and entangle him in its grasp.

“A tree, Sherlock?”

Sherlock looked down at Rosie and back up at John. “Real or fake?”

“Real, of course. No point in bothering otherwise.”

Sherlock’s eyes traced around the room, as if looking for more threatening greenery and settled on the mantle. “Can I use my skull as a tree topper?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“First of all, it’s too heavy, and more importantly, it’s a Christmas tree, not a death tree.”

“You have to kill the tree to bring it into the flat. I’ll put a hat on it if you like.”

“Father Christmas hat?”

“No.”

John’s eyes tightened. “The Deerstalker.”

“Fine.”

“Then you can use the skull as a tree topper, _if_ we find one with a sturdy enough centre branch.”

Mrs. Hudson clucked as she turned to make her way downstairs. “I don’t know where you’re going to put it.”

“We’ll find a place, Mrs. Hudson. You can always find a place for something important.”


	3. Waltz of the Flowers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here are links to the two songs Sherlock plays in the scene if you would like some audio accompaniment.  
> [ Trepak from the Nutcracker ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TmQjhwsPRDE)  
> [ Waltz of the Flowers from the Nutcracker ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bQA5Fnher3o)
> 
> *****

John couldn’t believe his luck. The surgery had over-scheduled staff, meaning he got to leave early, early enough that he’d only been sneezed on twice that day.

He pulled the door to 221 Baker Street shut behind him, the dim sound of music he had heard on the street growing louder inside the building. He called out over the vigorous violin tune. “Hullo, Mrs. H!”

Mrs. Hudson opened her door. “You’re back early. No one sick?”

“If they are, it’s not my problem today.” He nodded up the stairs. “He been at that long?”

“Just started, not that I mind when it’s got an actual melody.”

Means Rosie must be up from her nap. Ta!”

John made his way up to the landing and pushed the door open quietly, not wanting to disturb the concert in progress. He leaned against the door frame to listen as Sherlock, his back to the doorway, played a rollicking, bouncy tune to Rosie, who was sat in his armchair. The song was one of the fastest he’d heard Sherlock play and his dark curls bounced as the bow danced over the strings.

Sherlock played the final note with a flourish and Rosie giggled and clapped in her chair. John gave a slow clap from the doorway, alerting his family to his presence.

“You’re home early.”

“The Nutcracker, was it?”

Sherlock nodded, lowing the instrument from his shoulder. “Trepak. The Russian dance. I thought I’d take the opportunity of your absence to introduce her to some quality holiday music, instead of the pop drabble you’ve been playing constantly.”

“I wasn’t complaining.” John removed his jacket and hung it on the hook. “There’s a waltz in there somewhere, yeah?”

“In The Nutcracker? Several. Why?”

John crossed over to his daughter in the chair. “Because this little lady is in need of a dance, and I am an excellent waltzer.”

“Passable.” Sherlock lifted the violin to his chin.

John picked up Rosie and sat her in his right arm, holding her tiny right hand his left. “If I am only passable, you have no one to blame but yourself. Maestro?”

Sherlock drew the bow across the strings in a steady one-two-three, one-two-three rhythm before settling into the gentle, lilting melody.  

John hummed along as he waltzed Rosie around the room. Father and daughter, dancing the Waltz of the Flowers.


	4. O Christmas Tree

John pushed a scrambled egg from the frying pan onto a small plate and used the edge of the spatula to break it up into tiny pieces. He blew on the plate and set it on the tray of Rosie’s high chair.

“I’m going to fry up some eggs. Do you want one or two?”

Sherlock didn’t look up from John’s laptop. “Two, very runny yokes.”

 “Two runny fried eggs coming right up.” John turned and placed a pat of butter in the pan, and cracked several eggs into the sizzling fat. “What are you looking at anyway? Did a case come up?”

“The variety of Christmas Tree species is astonishing. Did you know that you can buy them online and have it delivered by a man in a kilt?”

“Where’s the fun in that? You can’t order a tree online. Half the fun is going to the lot to pick one. Besides, we’ve got enough hairy shins in this flat, I don’t need to see some strange bloke’s.”

“But what kind? Norway spruces are traditional, but have a tendency to drop their needles and with Rosie still crawling, it seems like a poor choice. Blue spruces hold their needles well, but they’re, well, bluish.”

“How about we just go to a lot and ask for one that doesn’t shed?”

“The Abies nordmanniana seems to growing in popularity in the “non-drop” category. You’re not tied to a particular genus of conifer, are you?”

John slid Sherlock’s eggs onto a plate with toast and set it in front of him. “I just want a tree that is green, looks like a Christmas tree, and won’t cover the flat in needles. Stop researching and just look up the closest tree lot. We can head out after breakfast.”  

“Right, it’s best to make this sort of selection in person. Otherwise how could we guarantee that the centre branch is sturdy enough for the skull?”

John sat down with his own plate of eggs and pointed his fork at Sherlock. “Don’t even think about bringing the skull. We’ll have enough to carry with the tree and Rosie.”

*****

John unhooked the clasps on the carrier and lifted Rosie down the ground. She grabbed one of his fingers in each hand and began to wobble toward the large evergreen leaning against the doorframe.

“Mrs. Hudson’s right. I don’t know where we’d going to put this. Did you have to pick such a large one?”

Sherlock stood in the middle of the room, scanning for appropriate places. “It didn’t seem quite so large at the lot.”

“That’s because it was outside. With a bunch of other trees.”

Sherlock crossed to the left hand window, picking up a small toddle truck and pile of stacking rings on the way and tossing them into his armchair.  “If we adjust this forward slightly…” He leaned behind the chair and began to push it closer to John’s.  “And move my music stand over there, the tree should fit right in the window.”

Sherlock grabbed the music stand and leaned across the table, depositing it on the other side and then raced over to the tree, where Rosie was attempting to put a branch in her mouth. “Don’t eat the greenery, Rosie dear.”

Sherlock swooped the tree up into his arms and spun it across the room like it was his partner in a Viennese Waltz before placing the trunk on the floor with a resounding thump.  “What you think?”

John allowed himself to be lead back toward the tree by his fingers as Rosie tried to regain her lost prize. “Perfect. It’s right by the chimney, so Father Christmas won’t be able to miss it.”

Sherlock frowned and grabbed the tree stand from the table and began to wrestle the tree into it.

“No Father Christmas. Could you hold it straight while I tighten the bolts?”

John lifted up Rosie unto his hip and grabbed the centre branch with one hand. “Come on, Sherlock. Don’t you have any sense of wonder?”

Sherlock ducked under the tree. “I have a perfectly attuned sense of wonder. I find all sorts of things wonderful.  I just think --“ He stopped to reach over to the far bolt and tighten it against the trunk. “That there are enough actual things in the world worthy of our attention that we don’t need to go and make some silly ones up.” Sherlock sat back on his heels, his hair full of pine needles. He looked up at the tree. “That’s not remotely straight is it?”

John let go of the tree and stood back, tilting his head to the right. “Not even close.”

Sherlock sighed and leaned back under the tree. “Let’s try this again.”

***

An hour later, John hung the second-to-last red plastic ball on tree (the last being firmly ensconced in Rosie’s mouth) and turned to Sherlock. “Your turn. Time for the final touch.” John reached back toward the bookshelf and flung the deerstalker toward Sherlock, who caught it deftly with the hand that wasn’t holding Rosie.

“I really have to put the hat on it?”

“You said you would. It’s either that or a Father Christmas hat.”

Sherlock frowned and pulled the cap down unto the skull, which he slotted onto the rather sturdy centre branch.

Both men stood in the middle of the room to admire their handiwork.

“It looks nice, actually.” John mused.

“It does.” Sherlock’s brow furrowed a bit at the tree. “It’s still leaning a bit left isn’t it?”

“Yep.” John turned to kitchen to put the kettle on.

“We’re not fixing it, are we?”

“Nope.”

Rosie reached up toward Sherlock’s face and giggled as she tried to press her spit-covered bauble into his mouth.

*****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter comes with an illustration! I know the image has text from another chapter on it, which I did because it made more sense out of context. But hey - illustration! I'm not really planning on doing any other illustrations for the piece, but I couldn't resist the "death tree."


	5. The Snow It Melts the Soonest

He had to wrap the damn thing three times, since the cheap paper he’d bought at Tesco seemed to have a habit of instantaneously ripping the moment it met a corner. But it looked well enough, and he popped a tape-backed bow on top and set it on Sherlock’s music stand where he’d be sure to see it when he got back from his client’s house ( _Most likely an affair_ , he said. _Dull_ , he said.) and did his scan.

A scan was the only thing to call his uncanny knack of walking into the flat, identifying what items had moved during the day and determining what he and Rosie had done in his absence. Observation and deduction, yes, but it did cut down on his topics of conversation if Sherlock already knew how their day went.

The noodles were keeping warm on the stove and Rosie was contentedly eating or (was it smashing?) her peas, when Sherlock burst into the flat and threw himself back onto the sofa with a resounding sigh.

“It was an affair. As I suspected. People are so dull with their relationship problems. I don’t know why they have to drag me into it.”

“You didn’t have to take the case.”

“It’s the holidays, John. Things get so terribly slow during the holidays. Everyone’s too busy shopping to go and a plan a decent crime. There was one point of interest.”

“Which was?”

“The husband was having an affair with the local butcher. Seems he had a predilection for charcuterie that couldn’t be otherwise tamed.” Sherlock chuckled to himself and sat up, looking around the room. “You went out today.”

“Yep.”

“And Rosie had an accident.”

John scooped Sherlock’s parmesan noodles onto a plate. “Yep.”

Sherlock sniffed the air. “A poop accident?”

John pushed aside a stuffed sun and placed the plate on the coffee table. “More of an explosion really.”

Sherlock grimaced and waved his hand by his coat collar. “The up-the-neck kind?”

John nodded and dropped a fork, tines down, into the pile of egg noodles. “The up-the-neck kind. And with that, eat.”

Sherlock shrugged off his coat and let it rest on the sofa back behind him, tossed his scarf up with it, and dug into his food. “Do you need to take a shower?”

“It wouldn’t go amiss, but my jumper is current taking up the tub, having a good soak.”

“The Christmas one?”

“You’re not that lucky. Dark blue and it’ll come out.” John removed the bowl of peas from Rosie’s tray and began to wipe the child clean of green mush.

Sherlock gave a small harrumph and lifted another forkful of noodle toward his mouth, when his eyes fell on the music stand. He dropped his fork with a clatter and jumped over the coffee table to grab it. “What is this?”

“It’s a gift.”

“Of course it’s a gift. What is it doing here? Shouldn’t it be under the tree?”

“Do you see any other presents under the tree?”

“No.”

“Then maybe someone put it there because you’re supposed to open it now.”

Sherlock flipped the present over in his hands. “The tag says from Rosie, which is clearly a lie, though the wrapping is of such poor quality it could have conceivably been done by a child. Furthermore, the gift exchange doesn’t happen until Christmas. Or at least Christmas Eve. Or December 6th, if you’re Dutch, which you’re not, and in any case, this isn’t any of those dates.”

“Yes, well, I’ve been trying to teach Rosie about the calendar, but she just hasn’t managed to get a grasp of it yet. Besides, you’ll have more time to enjoy it if you open it now.”

“So this is a gift with a deadline? That doesn’t seem very kind.”

John plopped down in a chair and sat Rosie in his lap. “Just open the bloody thing!”

Sherlock tore off the paper and looked at the object in his hand curiously. “It’s a CD.”

“It’s middle ground. You said you didn’t like my holiday pop music, drabble, I believe you called it. So I, I mean _Rosie_ , got you this.”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “Who’s Sting?”

“He was with The Police.”

“He worked for the Met? Which department? Not homicide, obviously. I never forget a face.”

“The Police was a pop group.”

“Why would you think I would want more pop music for the flat?”

“No, he quit that ages ago and got all esoteric, learned the lute or something. He’s a pop singer, but the album is all traditional songs, with stringed instruments. Former pop singer with classical leanings, ergo middle ground. And you probably wouldn’t want to listen to it January, so I gave it to you now.”  John leaned back in his chair in a bit of huff, because of course you couldn’t just give Sherlock a gift and expect him to say “thank you.”

Sherlock looked down at the gift in his hand and ran his nail along the edge, piercing the plastic encasing it. He opened the case and pulled out the liner notes which fell open to a photo a musicians gathered in a circle: violin, harp, guitar and drum in hand. He glanced over the notes and looked up pair sat across from him, somewhat impressed. “Thank you Rosie, that’s very thoughtful.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sting’s _If On a Winter’s Night_ is very popular in my house come Christmastime. If you like traditional music, there’s a [ lovely concert of Sting performing the album with a small orchestra at Durham Cathedral. ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HTQgKBPQkf0%20)
> 
> Also, you guys were so nice about the last one, that I'm working on another illustration. It'll go up with the next chapter.


	6. Baby, It's Cold Outside

John’s well of good-will had been thoroughly dried up by by six sinus infections, two wailing ear infections, and a chatty hypochondriac. It was Christmastime, he felt like a scrooge, and he needed of top up of good cheer.

“Do you need to eat right now?” John asked as soon as he came through the door.

Sherlock turned from where he was trying to convince Rosie to eat something mushy and orange. “Not particularly, no.”

“Then bundle up Rosie and grab your coat, we’re going out.”

“She wasn’t interested in this anyway.” Sherlock set aside the orange mush and proceeded to get Rosie ready for outside. “Where are we going?”

“Oxford Street, to see the lights.”

Sherlock stopped wiggling Rosie’s arm into her coat sleeve. “No.”

“Why not? I hear they’re great this year.”

“It’s Oxford Street at the holidays. It’s going to be overrun with shopper and tourists. The only sane person who would willing throw themselves into that melee is a pick-pocket.”

“All the more reason to go, you can stop of ring of orphan pick-pockets while we’re there.”

“Wrong Dickens novel for this time of year, don’t you think?”

“Come on. Rosie’ll love it. You see how she likes the lights on the tree, imagine that, but ten times more. Besides, I’ve had a crap day and I could use a little Christmas cheer.” John held out Sherlock’s coat. “We can pick up Thai on the way back.”

“Extra spicy?”

“Extra spicy.”

“And I get all the spring rolls?”

“You get _most_ of the spring rolls.”

Sherlock went over to the grab the carrier off the sofa.

“Actually, let me.” John took it from Sherlock’s hand. “I could use a little extra Rosie time tonight.”

“Are you sure? It’s been a while since you’ve used it and she’s gotten bigger --”

“It’s fine, Sherlock. I was in the army, I’m used to carrying heavy things.”

*****

John attempted to roll back his shoulders as he adjusted Rosie on his chest. “What have we been feeding this child? My shoulders are killing me.”

Sherlock pushed his way through the crowd, opening a gap for John and Rosie to follow. “Peas and carrots mostly. Yoghurt. The occasional banana.”

John took a moment to lean against a lamp-post. “You’re right, this was a dumb idea. There’s people everywhere and she can’t even see the lights from this thing.” John stretched his neck from side to side. “Do you just want to head back and grab the food?”

“We’re here, we might as well enjoy it. Why don’t you give Rosie to me, take a break for a bit?”

“Might as well.” John’s fingers fumbled at the clasps. “Fantastic, my hands are too cold to work the buckles.”

“You should wear gloves.”

"Yeah, well, my gloves are rubbish. It'd be even worse with them."

Sherlock reached out a black-clad hand and easily unclipped the top of the carrier, pulling Rosie out. “Keep the carrier on, if you don’t mind. I’ve an idea.” Sherlock turned Rosie around in his arms so she was facing outward and lifted her up on his shoulders. “There. A perfect view.”

John watched as Rosie reached up a tiny mittened hand and tried to grab the twinkling lights high above her head and he felt a bit of cheer added to that empty tank.

Sherlock and John walked down the street shoulder to shoulder, John’s eyes fixed on his daughter’s reactions and the man carrying her, as much as the lights. Halfway down the street, they passed a bell-ringer dressed in a red suit and white trimmed hat.

“This is the last time I’ll ask and I’ll give it up, I promise. You’re certain about Father Christmas?”

“I’m not lying to Rosie. Not about anything, ever. She’s not genetically predisposed to trust me, and I’ll not endanger the trust I’ve built with her over something as silly as an impossible man in a red suit.”

John stopped still. “Genetically predisposed...” He noticed that Sherlock hadn’t stopped and he hurried to catch them. “Sherlock, you’re as much Rosie’s dad as I am.”

Sherlock continued to walk forward, a bit more quickly and stiffly now. “Genetic testing, or a simple glance at her face would indicate otherwise.”

“You can’t be serious. You watch those crap talk shows, providing half of the chromosomes makes someone a father, but it certainly doesn’t make them a dad.”

“It’s a helpful advantage.”

“Nine months. We’ve been at this nine months. That’s practically its own gestational period. And in that time what have I done with Rosie or for Rosie that you haven’t done? I can give you an answer, simple. You don’t share a bedroom with her. That’s the only thing. And before she started sleeping through the night, even that wasn’t true half the time.” John moved in front of Sherlock blocking his way. “If you don’t want to tell Rosie about Father Christmas because you feel like it’s a lie, fine, I’ll honour that, but don’t just do it because you think she trusts you less than me. As far as Rosie is concerned, she’s got two dads.”

John shoved his hands in his pockets as they stood like an island, letting the crowd drift around them.

Sherlock pulled Rosie from his shoulders. “It’s getting colder. We should get her inside. May I have the carrier, please?”

“Of course.” John shrugged off his coat, the cool air biting into his skin, as he undid the carrier on himself and began to put it on Sherlock. “I’m crap at using it anyway.”

 

*****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Illustration - this time, with faces!


	7. Dashing Through The Snow

He had to admit that he had started it after all, but John was still surprised to find a gift (elegantly wrapped, of course, curse the bastard) sitting in his armchair upon his return from the surgery.

“Oi! What’s this then? I thought gift-exchanges didn’t occur until the 25th?”

Sherlock looked up from the floor, giving up his attempts to get Rosie to stack the rings in chromatic order instead of just shoving them in her mouth, as a lost cause. “They don’t. But it’s for Rosie, and as you said, her grasp of the calendar is a bit shaky at best. Besides, it’s one of those good-for-a-limited-time things.”

John picked up the gift and sat down with it in his lap. “Please tell me you didn’t get our daughter a time-bomb.”

“Of course not. I’m waiting until at least her third birthday before I start providing her with explosives.”

“I really hope you’re joking about that.”

“Why? Do you think two would be more appropriate? All the frowny face children on the  side of the toy boxes seem to indicate that after three is when children can seem to handle dangerous items like small pieces, so explosives would logically follow suit, no?”

“I don’t know if your joking or not, but I’m going to believe that you are, otherwise I won’t sleep for the next several years.”  He looked at the gift in his lap warily. “If the gift is for Rosie, why hasn’t it been opened yet? You’ve both been home all day.”

“I thought you might like to help.”

“All right then.” John slid out of his chair and settled on the floor next to Rosie, who greedily reached for the brightly-coloured ribbon, and rather successfully undid the bow. John pulled off the remains of the ribbon and handed it to Rosie, before removing the paper to reveal a plain white shirt box. He lifted the cover and folded back the tissue inside. “This is from you?” John said incredulously.

“Of course.”

John pulled the tiny red and white garment from the box, still unable to mask the confusion in his voice. “It’s a Christmas jumper. You hate my Christmas jumper and yet, you got her a Christmas jumper.”

“Technically, it’s a cardigan.”

“It’s got reindeer on it.”

“A small level of whimsy is allowable under a certain age.”

“And just for future reference, what is the cut-off for whimsy?”

“Six?”

John shook his head.

“Seven?”

John shook his head again.

“I’ll know if when I see it.”

John looked down at the cardigan in his hands. “So, I’m to believe that you walked into the children’s clothing department of Marks & Spencer with the purpose of buying Rosie a Christmas jumper?”

“Not exactly. Yesterday I was chasing that embezzlement suspect through John Lewis and I happened to notice it as I ran by.”

“So you stopped chasing a criminal to buy a Christmas jumper? Mary once told me that she thought I’d believe any lie that came out of your mouth, but this is pushing it, even for you.”

“Of course I didn’t stop chasing the suspect. I caught him just outside of the Haberdashery and sat on him until the Met arrived, _then_ I went back and purchased the cardigan. She’s got Watson blood in her, I just assumed the need to wear a Christmas jumper was something of a biological imperative.”

John looked over at Rosie who had moved on from the ribbon and was gleefully sucking on a red and white sleeve. “You know, I think you’re right. She clearly likes it.”

“Then you’re welcome, Rosie.”

*****  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For reference - the cardigan I had in mind is this [ adorable knitting pattern ](http://www.ravelry.com/patterns/library/dasher) that I want to make so bad, if only I had the time/a kid who actually wore knitwear. :(
> 
> Also, since so many requested it, here's a sketch of Sherlock waiting for the Met to arrive. I didn't have time to color it, I hope you don't mind.


	8. Blue Christmas

Most days it was easy enough to keep the sadness at bay.  He was busy with Rosie, busy at work, busy with Sherlock. Some days he didn’t even think about it all. Then there were days like today.

It’d been an ordinary enough day, ordinary enough moment, but those were the ones that got you, he had learned in past nine months. The flash of a blonde bob at the grocery. The whiff of her perfume as a woman pushed past him on the Tube. The time he had asked Mary to grab him some pepper when he was making supper, only to recall that she wasn’t there to hand him anything.

John went to the cabinet (the one to the left of the poisons and chemicals, he always made sure to check) and pulled down his bottle of whiskey and grabbed a glass. Sherlock was putting Rosie to bed tonight, he could afford to take the edge off.

The woman hadn’t even looked like Mary, he thought as he poured himself two fingers and took the bottle with him into the sitting room. She was brunette for one, long-haired and younger than his wife had been. But it wasn’t so much the woman he noticed, as the young girl, probably seven or eight, fast asleep with her head on her mother’s shoulder.

He’d been around Sherlock long enough to pick up a thing or two. The ruffles of a party dress peeking out from under her coat, patent leather shoes, hints of chocolate and confectioner’s sugar around her lips, the shopping bags clutched in the mother’s free arm. A special day out on the town, shopping and afternoon tea with Mummy. Holiday tradition probably.

John looked down at his glass and took a drink.

Rosie was lucky, he knew that. She had two parents who adored her and Mrs. Hudson and Molly were there to provide a female presence in her life, but she had had a mother who loved her too. And once again, it all seemed so terribly unfair.

He heard the door to the bedroom shut behind Sherlock.

“You wish to be alone?” Sherlock hesitated in the kitchen, looking at the glass in John’s hand.

“Yeah.” John took another drink and Sherlock turned to make his way upstairs. “I just wish there was something I could give Rosie for Christmas from her mother. Something to remember Mary by. What if she forgets her?”

Sherlock turned back around. “We won’t let that happened, John.”

“I’ve been going through all the things I kept of Mary’s in my head and nothing’s appropriate. Not for a one-year-old at least.”

Sherlock stopped in the kitchen and John could see him sliding past images in his mind palace. He blinked and his eyes focused on John. “Do you still have the red coat?”

“Yeah, of course. Bit big, don’t you think?”

“It’s a very large coat, and wool too, which makes it perfect.”

“Perfect for what?”

“Make it into a blanket for Rosie. She’d have a piece of her mother –“

“Every time she goes to bed. That’s brilliant, Sherlock. But how? I can do a suture better than most, but I can’t exactly sew an entire blanket.”

“Let me take it to my tailor. Deconstructing and reconstructing clothing is his stock in trade. I’d make sure he’d do a good job of it, if you’d trust me with it.”

“Yeah, of course I trust you.”

Sherlock looked to the counter and grabbed a clean glass from the drying rack. “Do you mind?”

John picked up the bottle from the table. “Not at all.”

Sherlock met John in front of their respective chairs and John poured some of amber liquid into the outstretched glass.

Sherlock raised his glass. “To Mary.”

“To Mary.”


	9. It'll nearly be like a picture print by Currier and Ives

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to mention this last chapter, but a bunch of people asked for an illustration of Sherlock sitting on a suspect, so I added it to chapter 7, so check that out if you'd like.

“Molly, do come in!  The boys are upstairs.”

“It’s so kind of them to make a special dinner just for me. I am sorry I can’t make it for the Christmas dinner”

“When family calls, they call. Nothing to worry about, my dear.”

John had no sooner heard the voices downstairs, than Rosie had pulled herself up on his kneecaps and was grabbing at his fingers, a sure indication that she wanted to walk somewhere.

He provided Rosie with her requested balance support as she toddled toward the landing, just far enough back to miss the swing of the door as Mrs. Hudson pushed it open for Molly, her arms loaded with gifts.

“Hullo, Rosie luv!” Molly placed her packages on the floor and swept Rosie into her arms, where the child snuggled in tightly and began playing with the end of the long brown ponytail hanging within her grasp. “I’ve missed you too! It’s been too long since we’ve had a proper girl’s night, isn’t it? Tell your Dad he needs to go out on more cases, so we can have some fun.”

Sherlock picked up Molly’s gifts off the floor and set them on table. “December is, regrettably, always a slow month.”

John took Rosie back into his arms only for as long as it took Molly to remove her coat.

Molly winked at John. “The criminal class of London is truly lacking in the Christmas spirit.”

“I agree.” Sherlock replied, missing the joke entirely.

Molly shifted Rosie in her arms. “So, lady’s choice. What’s first? Food or presents?”

*****

Molly accepted the heaping plate from Sherlock as she took in the maelstrom of wrapping paper on the floor in front of her. “You’re right Rosie, presents first is always the best choice. Though I might have overdone it a bit. I just couldn’t help myself.”

“Where does one even find a plush botulism?” John asked, pointing at the stuffed orange bacterium in Rosie’s hand.

“Same place you find plush DNA and periodic table building blocks. The internet is a wonderful place.”

“Yes, you can certainly find all sorts of interesting things on the internet, I’ve seen John’s browser history.”

John threw Sherlock a look while he passed a red envelope to Molly.

Molly opened the card and read the contents, her eyes blinking a bit more than usual as she neared the end. “Thank you.”

“Sherlock suggested the Bunsens, Beakers, and Beyond giftcard. I said a donation to the cat rescue, so we did both. It hardly seems sufficient after all you’ve done for Rosie, but Happy Christmas, Molly.”

“The message in the card is the best gift, really. But where’s the photo?”

Sherlock sat down on the sofa next to Molly with his own plate of food. “What photo?”

“The Christmas Card photo.”

“I’ve never put a photo into my holiday correspondence before.”

“Well, that would have been a bit odd on your own, but you’ve got Rosie now. You’ve got to do the photo with the Christmas cards when you have a kid.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow inquisitively at Molly. “Why do you have include a photo?”

“So people know what your kids look like now, how much they’ve grown.”

“Anyone who needs to know anything about Rosie  sees her at least monthly, I doubt they’ve forgotten what she looks like since then.”

“It’s just one of those things people do, it’s nice.”

Sherlock looked at John for help. “Are we shirking some major parental duty?”

John swallowed his bite of lasagne. “I dunno. I mean, yeah, most families do include some kind of photo with the card, but I didn’t really think about it, it didn’t seem like something you’d want to do.”

Sherlock looked back at Molly. “Would you like a photo?”

“Yes, I would actually.  Of the three of you.”

“If you’re taking orders, I’d like one too.” Mrs. Hudson chimed in from her seat by the door.

John could see Sherlock trying to logic his way out the request. “The ask has been made, Sherlock. It’s just a photo.”

“I could take it. My phone's camera is pretty good.” Molly offered.

“Fine.” Sherlock set down his plate and stood up, buttoning his suit jacket. “Is in front of the tree suitably Christmassy for you?”

Molly smiled. “Yes, that would quite lovely.”

John’s eyes darted from Sherlock to Molly. “We’re doing this now? In the middle of dinner?”

“Best to get it over with don’t you think?” Sherlock removed Rosie’s bib, and pulled her up from her highchair, checking her dress for stray food.

John set down his own plate and stood up. “It’s a photo, not getting a tooth pulled.” He took Rosie into his arms when Sherlock offered her and stood in front of the tree.

Mrs. Hudson stood behind Molly, looking at the preview image on Molly’s screen. “Sherlock, do move in a bit dear, try to look like you actually like each other.”

Sherlock dutifully took a step in, removing the gap between himself and John. “This all seems terribly forced.”

John spoke through his smile as the flash on Molly’s phone went off once, then twice. “Just smile and get it over with. Actually don’t smile, you look creepy when you fake smile. Just look pleasant.”

Mrs. Hudson cooed as the most recent image appeared on the screen. “Oh, that’s the one. They are a handsome family, aren’t they?”

Molly smiled as she lowered her phone. “I’ll make you a print.”

“Make it a big one. I’ll put it in a frame over the mantle.”

Sherlock groaned as he unbuttoned his jacket and flopped back down onto the couch. “Don’t you dare.”

“Extra big one then, Martha?”

“Extra big would be perfect, dear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to LizCarroll for this chapter. It was always going to be Molly/Mrs. Hudson, but was going to go a slightly different direction, then she suggested Christmas Card Photo as a prompt. And at first I thought, "John & Sherlock wouldn't bother with one of those", then I thought "unless someone made them" and who better than Molly and Mrs. Hudson. So thanks, Liz!!
> 
> And yes, you can get [ plush botulism ](http://www.thinkgeek.com/product/6708/?pfm=Search&t=botulism) (and plush DNA and periodic table building blocks).


	10. Of the Father's Heart Begotten

He’d been sitting, unmoving, in the same spot for twenty minutes, yet he still managed to be unable to find the scissors every time he needed them. John pushed a pile of tissue-paper aside. Nope. Lifted up a half-unfurled roll of wrapping paper. There it was. He cut off a wide strip of paper and began folding it around a hardcover copy of _Paddington_.

“You’re wrapping the gifts.”

John didn’t look up from his task, as he was now unable to locate the tape.

“I know it’s a bit last minute, but I haven’t had much time.”

“You’re wrapping _all_ the gifts?”

How did the tape end up _in_ the gift bag? “Well, you’re certainly welcome to lend a hand. It’s not as if I have any special skill at it.” John set aside the wrapped _Paddington_ and picked up _Bread and Jam for Frances._ The snowflake paper for that one, he thought.

“No, you’re wrapping _all of the gifts_.”

John put down the scissors with a sigh. “Sherlock, I know you think I’m thick, and maybe I am, but simply repeating the same phrase over and over isn’t going to make this any clearer for me.”

Sherlock plopped down on the floor next to John and picked up the copies of _Les Adventures de Tintin: Le Secret de La Licorne_ and _Le_ _Tresor de Rackham le Rouge_ from the stack of books.

“You can wrap those two together. You do know that you bought them in French, right?”

“Hergé was Belgian, it loses something in the translation.”

“Well, you’re going to have to read them to her, my French is terrible. You might as well throw _Treasure Island_ in there too, keep it to theme. Though you are the only person I know who buys a novel for an infant.”

“It’s not as if she can read herself, yet. I see no point in the books that have a total of fifteen sentences.”

“I’ll have you know that each of the books I selected have _at least_ twenty sentences each. And she likes the pictures.” _Jamberry_ gets penguin paper, John thought.

“My question still stands. You’re wrapping all the gifts?”

“Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

“You said Father Christmas doesn’t wrap his gifts.”

“Oh.” John grabbed a shirt box and put a fluffy pink tutu inside. “He doesn’t.”

“So no Father Christmas, then?”

“It seemed important to you. It’s not as if she’s not getting plenty of presents.”

“I see.”

John set aside the wrapped box. “Look, since we’re not waiting for a fat man to come down the chimney, would you mind if we exchanged gifts tonight? With the guests and the cooking and all, I’d just like to have a private moment for it. If you’re prepared, that is.”

“I’m not one to procrastinate when there’s a task at hand.”

“No, of course not.”

“Let me go get it.” Sherlock disappeared upstairs and John grabbed a wrapped shirt box from the under the stacks of gifts and sat himself in his chair.

Sherlock came back downstairs, hiding his gift behind his back and sliding it beside him in the chair as he sat down.

“Me first.” John placed the box in Sherlock’s hands and sat back, somewhat nervously.

Sherlock pulled open the wrapping and lifted the lid on the box, to reveal a thin stack of papers. He pulled up the first few stapled pages and began to read them. “This is –“

“My will. I first wrote it up before I shipped out to Afghanistan, and, well, ever since I met you I’ve been in the habit of keeping it fairly up to date.”

“You named me guardian to Rosie.”

“It’s been that way since she was born, but I wanted to you know that if anything happens to me, there’s no question that Rosie belongs with you. I figured that would cover us until we finished up with the second bit, which I hear can take a while.”

Sherlock looked at the second document in the box. “These are adoption papers.” He scanned through the pages. “You filled them out. You’re certain about this?”

“You’re her father as much as I am. I meant that. Now our situation is a bit unusual, so it make take a while, and we might have to ask Mycroft to pull some strings, but as far as I’m concerned, there are only two things you have to do.”

“Which are?”

“Sign the papers and decide what you want her to call you. She can’t call you Sherlock. First, it’s hard for a kid to pronounce, and mostly, I don’t go for that call-your-parents-by-their-first-name-nonsense. I’ve been going with Dad myself, but we can change that if you like.”

“Pater.”

“What?”

“I choose Pater. It’s Latin for father. _Pater Familias._ It’s got the same “p” sound as papa, so she should be able to say it all right. Or Pata, if the '-er' sound is too much.”

John smiled. “Pata. I like it. It suits you.”

Sherlock looked up from the papers in his hands. “Thank you.” He pulled up the small, thin box from his side and handed it to John. “This hardly seems adequate, now.”

John opened the gold-wrapped object and laughed, a happy joyous laugh. “It’s gloves.”

“They’re very nice gloves. Your hands are always cold.”

John put one on. They were quite nice, better than anything he would have gotten himself. “They’re perfect Sherlock, thank you.”

Both men sat back in their chairs and looked at the flickering gas flames in the fireplace before them, holding their gifts tightly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Kate Beaton, so I couldn't resist throwing in a little reference to her  Sherlock Holmes comic  with John's picture book selections, especially since they're all classics in their own right. I also like to imagine young Sherlock reading with interest (and in French, of course), the marvelous adventures of the young detective Tintin and his dog Milou, especially the sea-faring ones.


	11. A Soul Cake

“Sherlock, what are you doing?”

“I’m removing the mistletoe.”

"You’ve managed to avoid it for nearly a month. Why take it down now?”

“Because we have guests coming today.”

“Yeah, that’s usually when you put it up.”

“No, we have _guests_ coming. Think, John. Think!”

“It’s just Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade for sure, maybe your brother and possibly Bill Wiggins...  Yeah, get it down.”  
  
“Now you see!”  
  
From the bedroom Rosie began to cry. Sherlock tossed the mistletoe to John. “Throw that away. I’ll get her.” Sherlock opened the door. “Good morning, Rosie. No need to cry, Pata’s here.”  
  
John got up and considered the mistletoe for a moment before tossing it in the bin.  
  
Sherlock emerged from the bedroom with Rosie in one arm and a full stocking in the other. “I thought we could do her stocking before breakfast.”  
  
“Sounds good to me.”  
  
Sherlock pressed the stocking into John’s hand. “Here, I’ll hold her, you help her open it.”  
  
Sherlock plopped down into his chair and John dragged his forward so their knees were almost touching.  
  
John leant forward and kissed Rosie on the forehead. “Happy Christmas, Luv. Shall we see what presents the day has brought us? “  
  
John opened the stocking and looked down inside, then darted a look back up at Sherlock.  John pointed the opening toward Rosie, who reached into the stocking and pulled out a floppy stuffed dog. The infant pressed the soft creature to her cheek and sighed with delight.  
“That wasn’t wrapped.”  
  
“Nope.” The “p” popped from Sherlock’s lips.  
   
“I didn’t put it in there.”  
  
“You didn’t?” Sherlock replied innocently. “Interesting.”  
  
“I wonder how it got there.”  
  
“It is a mystery. What do you think?”  
  
“What do I-- Oh clever, Sherlock. Very clever.”  
  
Sherlock shifted Rosie on his lap. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Let’s help Rosie with her gifts, shall we?”  
  
*****  
  
Mrs. Hudson had been up and down the stairs all morning. Helping John with the turkey, checking the rolls in her own oven, watching Rosie while Sherlock wrapped the sausages in bacon, but by noon, she was happy to sit back by the fireplace with a baby on her knee and a glass of punch in her hand.  
  
Lestrade poked his head through the door at 12:05. “Oi! Anybody home?”  
  
Mrs. Hudson set Rosie on the floor and scurried to the door.  “I’m sorry dear. I didn’t hear you knock. Come in, the boys are busy in the kitchen.”  
  
“John and Sherlock? I just assumed you’d be doing most the cooking. Didn’t think Sherlock could do more than make toast.”  
  
Mrs. Hudson hung up Lestrade’s coat and picked Rosie up off the floor. “Just a few sides from me. They both insisted. Would you like to hold Rosie for a while?”  
  
Lestrade took a single step back, and pulled a decently-sized bottle out of his coat pocket. “Nah. I’m all right for now. I’ll just head into the kitchen and see if John wants to open his present early.”  
  
“If he does, pour me a bit as well, though just a nip, mind you.”  
  
There was a polite knock on the landing door.  
  
“Oh hello, Bill! Do come in.”  
  
“‘Appy Crimbo Mrs. H!” Bill Wiggins placed a kiss on Mrs. Hudson’s cheek and pressed a small gift bag into her hand. “I’ve brought you a present, too.”  
  
“Bill, you shouldn’t have!”  
  
Lestrade entered back into the sitting room, two glasses in hand. “Here you are Mrs. Hudson, shall I just put it on the table?”  
  
Bill eyed Lestrade and leaned over to Mrs. Hudson, whispering, though not as quietly as he thought, “I’d wait to open it until later, if you know what I mean.”  
  
Across the room Lestrade rolled his eyes and took a drink of his whiskey. “Can I get you something to drink Bill?”  
  
“Some punch would be brilliant, ta.”  
  
Mrs. Hudson finally sat and was raising her glass to her lips, when the sound of another set of footsteps was heard on the stairs. She put it down with a longing glance.  
  
John shut the oven door and pointed a finger at Mrs. Hudson. “Don’t you dare. I’ve got it this time. You’ve done plenty.”  
  
But the next guest didn’t wait for the door to be opened.  
  
“Mycroft, you came.” John couldn’t hide the hint of incredulity in his voice.  
  
“I was invited.”  
  
“Only because we thought you wouldn’t come.” Sherlock yelled from the kitchen where he was arranging water biscuits around a cheese ball.  
  
“Nice to see you too, Brother Dear. I’ve brought a pudding.”  
  
“We’ve already got one.” Sherlock yelled.  
  
“Thank you, Mycroft. That’s very thoughtful.” John took the white bakery box and placed it on the counter next to Mrs. Hudson’s platter.  
  
“Don’t be silly, he’s just trying to poison us.”  
  
“Of course not. Merely fattening you up for the kill.”  Mycroft threw an obsequious grin in his brother’s direction. “I also brought this.”  
  
Mycroft placed a heavy rectangular object crisply wrapped in paper into John’s hands.  
  
“Thank you, but you really didn’t have to get me anything.”  
  
“I didn’t. It’s for Rosie.”  
  
“But it’s clearly a novel.” John stopped himself. “Of course it’s a novel. It’s not in French is it?”  
  
“Why would it be in French? It’s the Complete Works of Charles Dodgson, if you must know. First collected edition, 1936. I thought Rosie may hear  _The Hunting of the Snark_. That’s a topic she should be well acquainted with, living in this house.” Mycroft huffed.  
  
“I didn’t mean it that way. It’s actually -- Just, thank you.”  
   
Sherlock set the cheese platter down on the table in front of Mycroft. “Hors d’oeuvres are served. Eat, then we do the crackers.”  
  
“Crackers?” Mycroft hesitated with a bit of cheese on the way to his mouth. “You know I’m not wearing any paper hats, Sherlock.”  
  
“Actually, you are,“ said John taking a bite of his own cheese-covered cracker. “House rules. Paper hat, or no dinner.”  
  
Sherlock grinned his largest grin from the kitchen.  
  
*****  
  
Wiggins was serving himself a third helping of turkey, when Mycroft quietly checked his pocket watch, removed his paper crown, and stood up from the table.  
  
“It’s 2:55. John, the television if you don’t mind.”  
  
Sherlock leaned over Rosie’s high chair to John. “What’s he going on about? He took off the hat, kick him out.”  
  
“It’s the Queen’s speech. It’s only proper,” said John, removing his own hat. “I’ll make him put it back on for dessert.”  
  
John got up from the table and pulled his armchair around and dragged a few chairs over closer to the fire, so they were all facing the television.  
  
“I know,” called out Lestrade. “Let’s make this a bit of fun. Everyone pick a word and every time Her Majesty says it, you take a drink. I pick, erm, Commonwealth.”  
“Peace,” said Mrs. Hudson.  
  
“Christmas” chimed in Wiggins.  
  
“Family” was John’s choice and Sherlock settled on “happy” after being talked out of “the.”  
  
“Good choices, all,” said Lestrade nodding. “Mycroft?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Don’t think that’ll come up much, but all right.”  
  
“No, I’m not playing, it’s hardly dignified.”  
  
“Your loss, mate.”  
  
****  
  
After Commonwealth was mentioned twice; family and happy, once; peace, three times; and Christmas, seven times; the paper hats were once again dutifully donned by all as they made their way back to the dining table.  
  
John went to the kitchen and looked at the pair of Christmas puddings in front of him. “We’ve got two puddings. Anyone want to make the call as to which one we start with?”  
  
“Mycroft’s. Definitely Mycroft’s.”  
  
All heads in the room turned slowly toward Lestrade, with Mycroft raising a particularly arch eyebrow at the Detective Inspector.  
  
“It’s just that I’ve had Mrs. Hudson’s and I while I don’t think it’s possible, I’d like to see if anything could possibly compare.”  
  
“Makes sense to me.” John set the pudding down on the table and handed Mycroft a bottle of brandy and a box of matches. “Sherlock, make sure to hold Rosie back. Mycroft, would you care to do the honours?”  
  
Mycroft poured some of the liquor over the cake and struck a match, the cake was quickly covered in a dim blue flame, highlighting the hint of pride that John thought he saw briefly cross Mycroft’s face.  
  
*****  
  
“I’m never making a pudding again.” exclaimed Mrs. Hudson as she set her fork down. “My compliments to your baker. He wouldn’t be willing to share the recipe would he?”  
“I’m afraid not. You know how bakers are. He considers his recipes something akin to state secrets.”  
  
John looked over at Sherlock’s plate, which had been scraped clean. “See, it’s not so bad having your brother over for Christmas.”  
  
“Yes, he knows his cake, I’ll give him that.”


	12. Stille Nacht

John shut the door behind Mrs. Hudson and plopped down the on the sofa with Rosie in his arms.  He closed his eyes and listened to Sherlock clattering in the kitchen.  
  
“Leave it. We’ll finish the dishes tomorrow.”  
  
“Fine by me. I’m exhausted.”  
  
“Me too. Who knew hosting a full-on Christmas dinner was so much work?”  
  
Sherlock stood in the archway, wiping his hands on a dishtowel. “Did it meet your expectations at least?”  
  
“What, dinner?”  
  
“Dinner, Christmas, the whole thing. Was it what you wanted?”  
  
“It isn’t about what I wanted, Sherlock. It was about being together as a family, doing things with the people we care about. But if you’re asking me if I enjoyed it, then yeah, it was good. What about you? Was it as awful as you thought it’d be?”  
  
“It was quite pleasant, actually.” Sherlock turned off the kitchen lights and looked over at the television. “Did you want me to turn the telly on?”  
  
“I think I’d rather just sit and look at the tree for bit.”  
  
“Do you think Rosie enjoyed it all?”  
  
John looked at the child in his arms, still clutching her floppy dog. “You’ll have to ask her tomorrow, she’s fast asleep.”  
  
“Did you want me to put her to bed?”  
  
“You know, when she was a newborn, I used to think that I’d be stuck under her forever, but before we know it, she’ll be too big to hold like this anymore.”  
  
“Give me a moment.” Sherlock dove into the boxes and bags beneath the tree and pulled out a crisply folded red blanket. He shook out the folds as he crossed the room and draped it gently over Rosie and John’s laps. Sherlock bent over low and pressed a soft kiss to his daughter’s forehead. “Happy first Christmas, Rosie.”  
  
John admired the heft of the blanket on his lap. It wasn’t big, but it was warm, and surprisingly elegant, considering it had once been a coat. Sherlock’s tailor had done a masterful job, really. John was so lost in his own train of thought that he almost, but not quite, missed the feather-light kiss pressed to his own forehead as Sherlock stood up.  
  
By the time his brain connected what had happened and John looked up, Sherlock had flopped onto the sofa, his feet flat against the cushions and the back of his head resting on the far arm. “Did you just?” John looked over his head. “Did someone move the mistletoe over here?”  
  
“Nope.” Sherlock’s eyes were closed.  
  
John eyed the collection of empty glasses on the coffee table. “Are you drunk?”  
  
Sherlock slightly opened one eye. “What do you think?”  
  
“What do I think? Doesn’t work on me Sherlock, I’m a grown up.  And while I may not have your powers of deduction, I’ve been related to Harry long enough to know how to spot when someone’s had a bit much.”  
  
Sherlock leaned up on his elbows. “Then deduce me John, am I drunk?”  
  
“Okay.” John looked over at Sherlock, taking in the details as best he could and piecing the pieces together.  “Okay.” John leant back against the sofa cushions. “All right then.”  
  
Sherlock flopped back down onto his back and shut his eyes.  
  
John looked down at their sleeping daughter once again and back at the man lounging on the cushions, just a few deep breaths away from falling asleep himself.  John smiled to himself and gave a little chuckle. “I love you too, Sherlock.”  
  
Sherlock didn’t bat an eyelash. “Happy Christmas, John.”  
  
“Yes, a very happy Christmas.”

 

 

~ fin ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it! I hope you this story provided you with some warm-hearted feelings and chuckle or two this advent season.
> 
> Thanks again to all you lovely commenters, chances are if you made a comment along the way, it got worked into the story somehow or another - so thanks for the feedback and ideas. 
> 
> I hope you all have very happy Christmases and a Happy New Year!!!
> 
> BTW - the comments section for this chapter contains spoilers and analysis of TAB - so avoid that if you haven't seen it yet.


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